It's 1963 and William Greer punches the gas while blood and skull fragments fly from the shattered head of an important man slumped in the back seat of the Lincoln convertible. The man's wife fell from the car a mile or so back, lunging for her husband, hysterics short-circuiting her balance and movement. Greer's sudden acceleration sent her somersaulting over the trunk to the pavement where she broke her wrist and received a moderate case of road rash.
A man named Zapruder, his receptionist helping him hold the camera. A star gone supernova and then nothing, caught on film. Frame 210. Frame 313. One then two. Neck. Head.
Stopping the car means solemn voices on radio waves and mournful faces relaying tragic news on the television.
Tires continuing to gather miles means something else, although Greer admits to himself that he isn't sure what the end result will be, or the importance of the part he is playing.
The Lincoln is being followed by police and line after line of dark cars, but they keep their distance. The dying man spills life all over the leather. Greer knows he should drive to a hospital, or stop and let the authorities handle the situation, but the man is only dead when they have his body. He also knows that he himself is an authority, that he was chosen for this specific task of transportation, so he adds a new selection to the list of options.
Punch the gas. Drive.